Sam slipped past a solid wall of interlocking pine branches, the final
barrier between him and the clearing in which the small plane had crashed.
He brushed aside some of the steady moisture that dripped from the sky into
his upturned face, and paused to catch his breath. "Good... thing the
pilot... found a clearing," he panted, leaning against a nearby trunk. "The
fuselage looks relatively intact; there may still be survivors.... Hey!
What was that flash?" He raised his eyes, examining the gray skies
suspiciously. "Not more lighting?"
"If it is, it's weird lighting," Al returned, peering curiously around the clearing. "That flash came from inside the plane. C'mon Sam," Al prodded, dancing his frustration between and through two trees. "This may be why you're here -- to save those people's lives."
Sam, knowing from long association the futility of arguing, set off again, covering the remaining thirty yards at a fast trot "Hello!" he called, having to circle the plane before coming into sight of the wrecked hatch. "Anyone in there?"
"That's kind of a stupid question, Sam," Al chided, sticking his holographic head through the fuselage. "Where else would they.... Ah-HA! They're in here, Sam! And... they're armed."
Beckett clambered up onto one intact wing, using it as a springboard to step easily through the gaping hatch. Three unfamiliar-looking weapons swiveled in his direction, following the movement of three widely dissimilar heads, each wearing identical expressions of surprise and open menace. He froze until the barrels were lowered and the menace had transmuted into wary relief. "Thank god you found us," a tall blond greeted, rising to his feet and extending a hand. "Did you see the plane come down?"
"Are we near any towns?" a powerful negro interjected, searching Sam's face intently. "Can you locate medical attention for us?"
"And most important," a third added whimsically, "where did you get that hat? And is it an original?"
Sam gaped stupidly at the slender, brown-haired man for several seconds before realizing the tension that droll statement concealed. He shook himself mentally and accepted the blond's hand. "I'm..."
"Harry Bauer," Al supplied, rising through the floor of the plane and looking around.
"...Harry Bauer," Sam parroted, pumping the large-boned hand once before releasing it "And you are...?
"Dr. Egon Spengler," the blond returned quickly. Sam barely hid a start at the name of one of the most eminent -- if unconventional -- physicists in the country. Spengler gestured briefly towards the brown-haired man, "Dr. Peter Venkman...."
"Ah-HA!" Al crowed, punching information into his handlink like mad.
"And I'm Winston Zeddemore." The negro waved his free hand once, his dark eyes taking in Sam's appearance with evident disapproval before turning away and patting a previously unnoticed form at his feet "This is Ray Stantz. He got a little battered in the touchdown."
Sam stepped closer, frowning slightly when the three stiffened, Egon actually moving to the left in an interceptory position. "Let me take a look," Sam offered, stepping around Egon to kneel at Peter's side. Venkman didn't budge, his eyes never leaving Sam's face -- Harry's face, Sam kept reminding himself -- and his fingers remained firmly locked around those of the auburn-haired, somewhat younger man who lay full-length on the cabin floor, soaked through with his own blood.
Pain-dazed brown eyes cracked open to stare into Sam's own with something akin to recognition. "Know... you?" The question was a tattered croak, which Sam had to bend closer to hear.
"No," he answered, patting the black man's arm once in signal. "You couldn't possibly know me." Winston released his hold, allowing a fresh surge of blood from the wound to trickle down the young man's bare skin, then immediately replacing his hold as firmly as before.
"But you know them, Sam," Al piped up from a position almost directly overhead.
"One," Sam corrected under his breath.
"All." Al recalibrated his presence until he was eye-to-eye with his puzzled friend. "You met Egon Spengler during that lecture you did at M.IT., remember? Physicist?" Sam dipped his head in a casual gesture that only the most suspicious would have taken as a nod. "The rest of them were on the cover of every paper, magazine and tabloid in the world for almost five years. Winston Zeddemore, Dr. Egon Spengler, Dr. Ray Stantz and, of course, the pretty guy there." He jerked his thumb at Peter, who, with his smudged face and stony expression, was looking anything but at the moment. "Once top research psychologist Dr. Peter Venkman. Sam, these are the Ghostbusters!"
Ray turned his head, tilling it in a listening attitude. "Who ... said that?" he asked, searching the air in Al's general direction. "Is... there...?"
"Uh-oh, Sam," Al said softly, "I think he can hear me. That's a bad sign; remember Maggie? She could see me, too, but only when she was dying."
"Take it easy, pal," Peter soothed, holding his friend's hand tight enough to cut off the circulation. "We lucked out with some help. I think," he added, with another hard look at Beckett.
Sam wondered briefly what it was about his new appearance that engendered such immediate dislike in these men. Granted he hadn't had much of an opportunity to examine his face closely, but there had to be something.... The thought was gone as quickly as it had arrived with the memory of the black, marble-hard eyes which had stared back at him from the dusty mirror. Then that thought, too, was gone. "I'm a doctor," he explained, tapping Winston's arm again. "Let me...."
"No offense, man," the dark haired Venkman returned coolly, "but you don't exactly look like a doctor to me."
"They sure don't trust you, Sam," Al remarked with some amusement. "And considering how you look this time, I don't blame them a bit."
"Do you have a telephone?" Spengler put in, maneuvering himself to hover protectively at Winston's shoulder. "If we can call for an ambulance...."
Sam considered. "You'd better not leave your friend here," he remarked, glancing from the battered hatch to the condensation already forming on the rapidly-cooling interior surfaces. He laid a hand lightly across Peter's, insinuating his fingers between the psychologist's until he could touch Ray's cold flesh. "He's going into shock," he said, forcing himself to ignore the emerald fire which rose in Peter's eyes at the liberty. "There's a cabin about a half a mile from here." He pursed his lips at the distrustful looks on the opposing three. "It's warm and dry; if nothing else, he won't die of exposure before help arrives. Besides, I smell jet fuel."
Spengler exchanged an inquiring look with Zeddemore, who sniffed the air suspiciously, then nodded. "Get some blankets from the overheads, Egon," the black man ordered. "Pete, see if you can find anything we can use as a stretcher."
Peter paused to tap Ray lightly on the head, smiling gently when the bleary gaze again focused on him. "We're gonna go bye-bye in a few minutes," he said gaily. "Need you to be tough again, pal."
Ray forced a weak smile and Sam (both the physician and the man) felt a touch of satisfaction at the closeness of their relationship -- at the trust evident in Ray's brown eyes and the gentleness muting the stern lines around Peter's mouth. That would stand the young man well against what he was going to have to endure before the day was out. Sam smiled himself as he rose, seeking his own friend, who was watching Sam just as intently if far more soberly.
"More news," Calavicci said, paying no heed when Egon stepped through his chest on the way back to his friends. "Ziggy found numerous reports of this crash in papers all over the country."
"Ray?" Sam whispered, alarmed by the other's grim mien.
Al shrugged. "The Ghostbusters never found the cabin; obviously, Bauer never made the hike out here when the plane went down. Rescuers did find it afterward -- stripped and empty. They arrived only after Zeddemore hiked 15 miles through an unexpected snow storm, ending up on one or the other of the major highways circling the mountain. By the time medics were transported in...." He paused, shaking his head. "The boy died, Sam. Never had a chance."
Sam turned, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the trio clustered around their fallen comrade, Venkman was talking softly to Ray, his words only half heard, but the tone soothing and full of encouragement and pleasantries. Ray was staring up at him as he'd done ever since Sam had boarded the plane, his vision never wavering from whatever strength he found in Venkman's taut face.
A little apart, Egon was busily assembling a collapsible stretcher, while Winston, firm as granite, maintained his pressure on Ray's wound, his shoulders tight but his face confident and strong.
Sam shook his head. "That's not going to happen this time, Al," he whispered firmly. "We can use the radio to call for paramedics and helicopter transport. Besides, I'm a surgeon; with medical help immediately available he should at least make it through until we can get him to a hospital. Barring serious infection he should be fine."
"If you can get them to trust you long enough to get close." Al silenced him by wagging his chewed stogie under Sam's nose. Sam automatically retreated several inches. "In case you haven't noticed, these guys aren't exactly dancing a jig to see you."
Beckett frowned. "I noticed. I know I'm not exactly Miss America, but I am only trying to help."
"You know that and I know that," the older man returned equably, "but they can't tell that from looking at you."
He broke off to watch interestedly as Egon finished assembling the stretcher and spread it out on the floor ready for its passenger, then maintained his silence while the three members of the ghostbusting team carefully lifted their fourth onto the thick canvas pad. Blood appeared at the comer of Ray's mouth where he'd bitten his lip through, but he didn't cry out, and this caused Al to nod approvingly. "Kid's tougher than he looks," he muttered, before turning back to his own partner. "Ziggy thinks he knows why you're giving everyone the instant willies just by walking into the room."
"Well?" Sam hissed, leaping lightly out of the hatch and landing with a squish in the wet earth.
Al stepped out after him, floating rather than falling the four feet to the ground. "Think about it, Sam," Calavicci urged. "These guys aren't seeing you, they're seeing...."
"An illusion of Harry's physical aura," Sam quoted. "So?"
"So I was talking to this guy Harry in the waiting room while we were getting a fix on the plane." He shrugged. "It took about fifteen minutes for me, less than a minute for you."
""Go on."
Al took another long pull on his cigar, exhaling the smoke with a contented puff. "The guy's a real sleaze, Sam, hard, nasty -- nothing you'd want to trust your kids around, if you catch my drift"
"But I'm not--" Sam began.
Al tapped him on the chest with an insubstantial forefinger. "Ziggy thinks that this Bauer creep is so rotten that his aura is projecting that evil right along with his appearance. These guys aren't just seeing our buddy Harry, they're sensing him as well. And they don*t like what they're picking up."
Beckett considered this seriously. "Makes sense, But with their friend's life at stake, they're going to have to let me help him." He moved out of the way as Peter appeared in the hatchway and began his own, more weary descent Al moved to join Sam at the wing tip.
"I hope you're right, Sam," he muttered. "'Cause I got a feeling that this leap could go from bad enough to worse in jig time."
***
The trip back to the cabin took far longer than Sam's original walk to the plane. Beckett took his place at the foot of the stretcher, his youthful strength bringing puzzled frowns to the faces of the Ghostbusters. They didn't remark on it, however, simply accepted his help and rearranged themselves accordingly around the injured man. This left Egon to trail the group by several steps, his own injured arm now resting in the new sling and splint that Winston had insisted on making for him before leaving the plane. Zeddemore took the poles at Ray's head, ceding his place at the young man's side to Peter, who walked slowly along, maintaining the necessary pressure on the sluggishly bleeding wound. Al vanished almost at once, presumably to recheck Ziggy for updated data.
Stantz had grown progressively less lucid over the course of the trip although not losing consciousness. By the time they'd reached the deceptively primitive cabin, the first signs of shock were already in place. His breathing was coming faster than before, and the look he stubbornly kept in Peter's direction was glassy and barren of all but the merest hint of recognition.
The bearers deposited him on the hard cot, not bothering to slip the canvas stretcher from beneath him before burying the man in a heap of dry blankets from the foot of the bed. Egon removed his friend's boots, while Winston made a bee-line for the radio, still sitting serenely against the wall. "Mayday!" he rapped, adjusting the frequency to 121.5. "Mayday. Air rescue, please respond. Over." No answer. He waited a full fifteen seconds before trying again. "Mayday! Mayday! Air Rescue, is anyone there? Over."
"Air Rescue," a man's voice replied, eliciting loud cheers from Peter. "We copy your signal. Identify yourself. Over."
Winston smiled broadly. "This is Winston Zeddemore, one of the Ghostbusters. Our plane has gone down about two hours out of Bangor, Maine. Pilot and crew are dead, one of our number is badly hurt. Need assistance. Over."
"Roger that, Mr. Zeddemore," the unnamed man returned immediately. "We will initiate rescue procedures immediately. Do you have a more precise location?"
Winston glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "Some valley about forty miles from the New Hampshire boarder," the latter told him. "I'm not sure what it's called." Winston repeated the information.
"Roger." A low muttering could be heard while the Air Rescue operator consulted with someone off-mike. "We're not picking up a transponder signal from your downed plane; any idea why? Over."
Winston shook his head, then, realizing the other couldn't see him, said, "Nose was smashed up pretty good. Possibly that."
Again that off-air muttering. "Leave your mike open," the other said after several seconds. "We'll attempt to trace you through that"
Winston cast a glance over his shoulder at Ray, who was lying nearly motionless, his face creased with pain. "Hurry," he begged over a suddenly dry throat. "We need medical attention bad."
"Roger. We'll be in touch. Out" The mike went dead except for some background static denoting a still open frequency.
Winston turned back to his friends. "All we can do now, " he announced soberly, "is to wait for them to find us. It shouldn't be too long?" This last was a question rather than a statement, and Sam treated it as such.
"Longer than you might think," he said sadly. "There's a snow storm coming that could delay rescue for... until it's too late." He gestured at Ray, his meaning more than clear. "You'd better let me take a look at that wound. I might be able to help."
Peter considered this for a long minute, rubbing his lean jaw, his green eyes sizing up Sam's appearance as though he were examining an amoeba under a microscope. Sam straightened his shoulders in an effort to not squirm, and finally the brown haired psychologist nodded. "All right. Take a look," he agreed, emphasizing the last word.
"I'm going to look around for another medical kit," Winston stated, purposely neglecting to inquire of Sam if there was one in the cabin. He left his seat at the radio to prowl the room, beginning with the bolted door to his left. A moment later and light washed into the living room from the harsh fluorescents of the lab. Winston disappeared inside.
Sam took his place at the bedside, carefully tugging away the torn black t- shirt. "What happened here?" he asked curiously, touching the large bruise on Ray*s right shoulder.
Peter, intently watching Sam*s every move, leaned closer. "That must have been where he first hit. We were so busy taking care of his side-.." He broke off, shooting Sam a worried look. "Do you think the bone is broken?"
Sam probed gently at the affected area, "Hard to tell; might be cracked but I can't feel any jagged edges under the skin. He should have it X-rayed as soon as possible." "He should have a lot of things done as soon as possible," the psychologist retorted shortly.
Sam nodded, then proceeded with his gentle examination. He lifted off the bloody bandage surrounding the spike of metal, the action forcing a soft moan from between Ray's clenched teeth. Sam patted him absently on the shoulder, "I'm sorry. I need to see how bad it is."
Ray closed his eyes. "P-Peter?"
"Right here, buddy," Venkman soothed, laying his hand on Ray's forehead. "Hang on." Ray nodded and said no more.
Sam's examination was over quickly, a few deft touches confirming what he already knew. "He's bleeding internally; if that strip penetrated the peritoneal wall, he could be developing a case of peritonitis on top of the blood loss."
"We used what antiseptic there was," Egon explained from his position at the outer door.
Sam shook his head. "He's going to need full battery antibiotics and immediate surgery. Notice how shock is becoming pronounced?"
"So, like, what do you suggest?" Peter asked, his worry not muting his expression of open distrust.
Sam considered. "Surgery. If I can stop the internal bleeding, we'll be able to combat the shock until help arrives. Then his only danger will be infection; we'll need a hospital for that, but this should give your friend a fighting chance until then."
"Good pitch, Sam," Al remarked from behind Sam's back. "If you can keep that kid alive until help comes, you should be able to leap out of here and Ziggy can relax."
"There's one thing more," Egon put in, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs in an attitude of nonchalance. He wrinkled his nose at the foul stench exuded by his still-slimy boot. "We still have Naggaoth to consider. What if he decides to attack us while you're operating?"
"Who's Naggaoth?" Sam asked, getting to his feet.
"Phew! He got you good, didn't he?" Peter put in. He snorted his disgust, adding to Sam, "Provided we let you operate."
"Which we aren't." That was Zeddemore returning from the second room; his face was grim and his particle rifle was slung casually from one dark hand with the barrel more-than incidentally pointing in Sam's direction. "Egon, take a look at this room."
The blond physicist uncrossed his legs and rose, disappearing through the doorway for some minutes. He returned at last after having made a brief circuit of the other room. "It's a lab," he said, emerging to stare curiously at Sam. "Looks like production rather than research. What are you working on?"
At a loss, Sam said nothing and it was left for the stone-faced Winston to answer. "Drugs." The black Ghostbuster closed and rebolted the heavy wood door, though not taking his eyes off of Sam, then sank back down into the radio operator's chair. "Ether, alcohol, cocaine, meth.... It's all back there arranged on nice neat little shelves and labeled with scientific precision." He bared his teeth in Sam's direction, but it was his partners he addressed. "This is a drug lab -- refinement, modification, production, crack or ice I think, I can't tell."
"You low level slime," Peter bit out, his contempt plain in both face and voice. "No wonder you wanted to work on Ray so bad -- one less witness, right? Then what? Take out the rest of us while we're burying him?"
Sam raised his hands helplessly. "I wouldn't...."
"Save it" The green eyes gleaming coldly in the lamplight. Peter waved to a hard chair at the little dining table. "Sit down," he ordered. "Over there away from Ray."
Sam started forward desperately, coming up short when two proton rifles centered on his chest "I'm telling you, help isn't going to make it in time to do your friend any good! The storm is coming back - a snow storm, this time."
Winston snorted. "The pilot told me we were passing through a local squall. I'm sure it's moved on by now"
Sam dropped wearily into the indicated chair, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "How can I convince you?" he asked pleadingly. "Your friend is going to die before help arrives."
"Or sooner if we let you touch him," Winston snorted.
"No, I mean it. Sam fixed Venkman with a direct look. "Check for yourself; feel around the wound with your fingers. Does the skin feel rigid? Different from the rest of his abdomen?"
Peter bit his lip then, apparently deciding there was no harm to be done by this, obeyed. He ran his fingers around the purple skin, then extended his examination to the surrounding tissue. "Yeee-es," he decided at last "It does feel... strange."
Sam nodded. "As I told you, he's bleeding internally, and it's obvious he's already in shock. If that bleeding isn't stopped soon, it's going to be too late."
"We've been maintaining pressure on the wound," Spengler protested rationally. "That should slow things up long enough for Air Rescue to arrive."
"You hope," Al grated, swinging around to peer at Ray for himself.
"That's a better chance than we have by trusting you," Venkman added, unknowingly answering Al's taunt. He replaced the blankets, drawing them up over Ray's chest. Stantz lay quietly, eyes closed, and seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. "Ray?"
Stantz stirred weakly. "Hmmm?"
Peter again lay a hand on the younger man's forehead, brushing once to dislodge a strand of fine auburn hair which clung there. He then extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the soaked gauze covering the bleeding wound, and pressed the palm of his hand against it. Ray cried out again, more weakly then before, and Peter winced. "How you doing, kid?" he asked gently. "Think you'll make it for awhile longer yet?"
Brown eyes slitted open briefly before shutting again, a sigh the only answer to Peter's question.
Winston spun his chair until he was refacing the radio. "I'm going to try Air Rescue again," he decided, picking up the mike. "They may have an ETA for us by now." He flicked several switches, increasing the signal as high as it would go. "Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Come in Air Rescue. Over."
There was no reply and, frowning, Winston tried again. "Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Is anyone there?" He toggled several switches, but the mike remained stubbornly silent. "Hello? Is anyone...?"
"I'm here," a horribly familiar voice hissed through the open receiver.
Without warning, a scaly, taloned hand emerged through the front of the set, making a snatch for Winston's throat. The black Ghostbuster dropped the microphone and reeled back, grabbing for his particle thrower. "Naggaoth!"
"Yessss." A slime covered, noisome head followed the hand, pausing only long enough to chuckle. "There will be no help for you this day" before the radio exploded, the concussion throwing Zeddemore bodily to the ground. Melted and twisted plastic showered the room, spattering the walls and windows with dangerous if non-lethal force. When the gale had cleared, Naggaoth was once again gone.
"That gooper is getting annoying," Peter growled with far more calm than his expression indicated. He straightened from the protective crouch he'd assumed over Ray, his fingers automatically seeking the cold hand of his friend. "You okay, Ray?" The young occultist/ engineer nodded slightly without opening his eyes. Peter sighed. "I get the feeling this isn't going to be one of our better days," he groaned, using the time while the others regained their feet to reseat himself on the edge of the bed.
"A... a ghost?" Al, too, had instinctively ducked when the radio blew. Now he nervously withdrew to the middle of the floor, peering at the ruined radio from a distance of ten feet. "Sam, did you hear that? That was a-"
"A ghost?" Beckett finished aloud. He looked from Egon to a furiously glaring Peter Venkman. "That was a..?"
'Ghost, Spengler repeated, quartering the room with long-limbed steps. "A dangerous Class 8 nether-entity named Naggaoth."
"Who wants us dead in the worst way," Peter concluded wearily, rechecking Ray's bandage. "Man, it*s never easy, is it?"
"No problem, Pete," Zeddemore answered, picking himself up off the floor and dabbing at a bloody cut on his right cheek. "All we have to do now is wait for a rescue team to find us. We can hold out until then."
"Uh-oh.
Zeddemore's eyes swiveled in Sam's direction on hearing that reluctant exclamation, and even Egon ceased his search of the room to stare at the in- disguise quantum physicist. "What's that supposed to mean?" the former demanded, closing the distance between them.
Sam offered him an apologetic shrug. "Look out the window," he invited. "That snow storm is already kicking in." He visibly braced himself, not retreating from the other's distasteful glare. "It could be hours before they get here. And with night falling...."
"It's only four o'clock," Spengler pointed out calmly, reclipping his thrower and removing the PKE meter from his breast pocket.
"Sundown is at 5:41 this time of year," Al supplied, pacing agitatedly in a circle.
"Sundown is at 5:41 this time of year," Sam repeated, thanking his friend with a surreptitious glance. "There's no way they're going to locate the plane and get help in here any time soon. You're going to have to let me take care of your friend. As a doctor...."
Egon, still standing directly before Beckett, idly pointed his PKE meter at the time traveler. It uttered a loud 'beep!' and began to flash, the needle fluctuating wildly. Egon studied it for several seconds, then waved it around the room. It squawked again and flashed red. "He's hot, gentlemen," the blond proclaimed calmly. "Variables in the plus-4 range." Two particle rifles leveled in Sam's general direction. "He-he's the one from the plane," Ray's soft voice interjected from the side. "Him and... the other."
"Other?" Venkman threw his friend a puzzled look, then released the pressure on Ray's side and wiped his bloody hand on his coverall. "Point the 'other' out, Ray," he urged, bracing his rifle in both hands.
Stantz blinked rapidly, then raised his hand to gesture at the spot Al Calavicci's holographic image was presently occupying. "Right there." Peter followed his pointing finger, aimed and fired.
"Al!" Sam yelled as the energy stream fried the air precisely where Calavicci had been a fraction of a second before. Reflexes honed by forty years of military training, Al was no longer there. An automatic push of a button and the imaging chamber door closed, leaving Sam to face three hard men alone.
"So your pet gooper has a name," Peter remarked, his attention torn between Sam and the rest of the room. "Hey, Ray, you see that 'other' person still?"
Stantz raised his head and looked around, then dropped limply back to the cot, his hand automatically going to his side. "No."
"Who is Al?" Spengler asked, again consulting his PKE motor.
Sam lifted both shoulders in an impotent gesture. "I doubt you'd believe me if I told you."
"I doubt it, too," Peter growled nastily. "Winston, see if you can find some rope. I don't want our little dogie doing any roaming until help comes."
***
"If it is, it's weird lighting," Al returned, peering curiously around the clearing. "That flash came from inside the plane. C'mon Sam," Al prodded, dancing his frustration between and through two trees. "This may be why you're here -- to save those people's lives."
Sam, knowing from long association the futility of arguing, set off again, covering the remaining thirty yards at a fast trot "Hello!" he called, having to circle the plane before coming into sight of the wrecked hatch. "Anyone in there?"
"That's kind of a stupid question, Sam," Al chided, sticking his holographic head through the fuselage. "Where else would they.... Ah-HA! They're in here, Sam! And... they're armed."
Beckett clambered up onto one intact wing, using it as a springboard to step easily through the gaping hatch. Three unfamiliar-looking weapons swiveled in his direction, following the movement of three widely dissimilar heads, each wearing identical expressions of surprise and open menace. He froze until the barrels were lowered and the menace had transmuted into wary relief. "Thank god you found us," a tall blond greeted, rising to his feet and extending a hand. "Did you see the plane come down?"
"Are we near any towns?" a powerful negro interjected, searching Sam's face intently. "Can you locate medical attention for us?"
"And most important," a third added whimsically, "where did you get that hat? And is it an original?"
Sam gaped stupidly at the slender, brown-haired man for several seconds before realizing the tension that droll statement concealed. He shook himself mentally and accepted the blond's hand. "I'm..."
"Harry Bauer," Al supplied, rising through the floor of the plane and looking around.
"...Harry Bauer," Sam parroted, pumping the large-boned hand once before releasing it "And you are...?
"Dr. Egon Spengler," the blond returned quickly. Sam barely hid a start at the name of one of the most eminent -- if unconventional -- physicists in the country. Spengler gestured briefly towards the brown-haired man, "Dr. Peter Venkman...."
"Ah-HA!" Al crowed, punching information into his handlink like mad.
"And I'm Winston Zeddemore." The negro waved his free hand once, his dark eyes taking in Sam's appearance with evident disapproval before turning away and patting a previously unnoticed form at his feet "This is Ray Stantz. He got a little battered in the touchdown."
Sam stepped closer, frowning slightly when the three stiffened, Egon actually moving to the left in an interceptory position. "Let me take a look," Sam offered, stepping around Egon to kneel at Peter's side. Venkman didn't budge, his eyes never leaving Sam's face -- Harry's face, Sam kept reminding himself -- and his fingers remained firmly locked around those of the auburn-haired, somewhat younger man who lay full-length on the cabin floor, soaked through with his own blood.
Pain-dazed brown eyes cracked open to stare into Sam's own with something akin to recognition. "Know... you?" The question was a tattered croak, which Sam had to bend closer to hear.
"No," he answered, patting the black man's arm once in signal. "You couldn't possibly know me." Winston released his hold, allowing a fresh surge of blood from the wound to trickle down the young man's bare skin, then immediately replacing his hold as firmly as before.
"But you know them, Sam," Al piped up from a position almost directly overhead.
"One," Sam corrected under his breath.
"All." Al recalibrated his presence until he was eye-to-eye with his puzzled friend. "You met Egon Spengler during that lecture you did at M.IT., remember? Physicist?" Sam dipped his head in a casual gesture that only the most suspicious would have taken as a nod. "The rest of them were on the cover of every paper, magazine and tabloid in the world for almost five years. Winston Zeddemore, Dr. Egon Spengler, Dr. Ray Stantz and, of course, the pretty guy there." He jerked his thumb at Peter, who, with his smudged face and stony expression, was looking anything but at the moment. "Once top research psychologist Dr. Peter Venkman. Sam, these are the Ghostbusters!"
Ray turned his head, tilling it in a listening attitude. "Who ... said that?" he asked, searching the air in Al's general direction. "Is... there...?"
"Uh-oh, Sam," Al said softly, "I think he can hear me. That's a bad sign; remember Maggie? She could see me, too, but only when she was dying."
"Take it easy, pal," Peter soothed, holding his friend's hand tight enough to cut off the circulation. "We lucked out with some help. I think," he added, with another hard look at Beckett.
Sam wondered briefly what it was about his new appearance that engendered such immediate dislike in these men. Granted he hadn't had much of an opportunity to examine his face closely, but there had to be something.... The thought was gone as quickly as it had arrived with the memory of the black, marble-hard eyes which had stared back at him from the dusty mirror. Then that thought, too, was gone. "I'm a doctor," he explained, tapping Winston's arm again. "Let me...."
"No offense, man," the dark haired Venkman returned coolly, "but you don't exactly look like a doctor to me."
"They sure don't trust you, Sam," Al remarked with some amusement. "And considering how you look this time, I don't blame them a bit."
"Do you have a telephone?" Spengler put in, maneuvering himself to hover protectively at Winston's shoulder. "If we can call for an ambulance...."
Sam considered. "You'd better not leave your friend here," he remarked, glancing from the battered hatch to the condensation already forming on the rapidly-cooling interior surfaces. He laid a hand lightly across Peter's, insinuating his fingers between the psychologist's until he could touch Ray's cold flesh. "He's going into shock," he said, forcing himself to ignore the emerald fire which rose in Peter's eyes at the liberty. "There's a cabin about a half a mile from here." He pursed his lips at the distrustful looks on the opposing three. "It's warm and dry; if nothing else, he won't die of exposure before help arrives. Besides, I smell jet fuel."
Spengler exchanged an inquiring look with Zeddemore, who sniffed the air suspiciously, then nodded. "Get some blankets from the overheads, Egon," the black man ordered. "Pete, see if you can find anything we can use as a stretcher."
Peter paused to tap Ray lightly on the head, smiling gently when the bleary gaze again focused on him. "We're gonna go bye-bye in a few minutes," he said gaily. "Need you to be tough again, pal."
Ray forced a weak smile and Sam (both the physician and the man) felt a touch of satisfaction at the closeness of their relationship -- at the trust evident in Ray's brown eyes and the gentleness muting the stern lines around Peter's mouth. That would stand the young man well against what he was going to have to endure before the day was out. Sam smiled himself as he rose, seeking his own friend, who was watching Sam just as intently if far more soberly.
"More news," Calavicci said, paying no heed when Egon stepped through his chest on the way back to his friends. "Ziggy found numerous reports of this crash in papers all over the country."
"Ray?" Sam whispered, alarmed by the other's grim mien.
Al shrugged. "The Ghostbusters never found the cabin; obviously, Bauer never made the hike out here when the plane went down. Rescuers did find it afterward -- stripped and empty. They arrived only after Zeddemore hiked 15 miles through an unexpected snow storm, ending up on one or the other of the major highways circling the mountain. By the time medics were transported in...." He paused, shaking his head. "The boy died, Sam. Never had a chance."
Sam turned, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the trio clustered around their fallen comrade, Venkman was talking softly to Ray, his words only half heard, but the tone soothing and full of encouragement and pleasantries. Ray was staring up at him as he'd done ever since Sam had boarded the plane, his vision never wavering from whatever strength he found in Venkman's taut face.
A little apart, Egon was busily assembling a collapsible stretcher, while Winston, firm as granite, maintained his pressure on Ray's wound, his shoulders tight but his face confident and strong.
Sam shook his head. "That's not going to happen this time, Al," he whispered firmly. "We can use the radio to call for paramedics and helicopter transport. Besides, I'm a surgeon; with medical help immediately available he should at least make it through until we can get him to a hospital. Barring serious infection he should be fine."
"If you can get them to trust you long enough to get close." Al silenced him by wagging his chewed stogie under Sam's nose. Sam automatically retreated several inches. "In case you haven't noticed, these guys aren't exactly dancing a jig to see you."
Beckett frowned. "I noticed. I know I'm not exactly Miss America, but I am only trying to help."
"You know that and I know that," the older man returned equably, "but they can't tell that from looking at you."
He broke off to watch interestedly as Egon finished assembling the stretcher and spread it out on the floor ready for its passenger, then maintained his silence while the three members of the ghostbusting team carefully lifted their fourth onto the thick canvas pad. Blood appeared at the comer of Ray's mouth where he'd bitten his lip through, but he didn't cry out, and this caused Al to nod approvingly. "Kid's tougher than he looks," he muttered, before turning back to his own partner. "Ziggy thinks he knows why you're giving everyone the instant willies just by walking into the room."
"Well?" Sam hissed, leaping lightly out of the hatch and landing with a squish in the wet earth.
Al stepped out after him, floating rather than falling the four feet to the ground. "Think about it, Sam," Calavicci urged. "These guys aren't seeing you, they're seeing...."
"An illusion of Harry's physical aura," Sam quoted. "So?"
"So I was talking to this guy Harry in the waiting room while we were getting a fix on the plane." He shrugged. "It took about fifteen minutes for me, less than a minute for you."
""Go on."
Al took another long pull on his cigar, exhaling the smoke with a contented puff. "The guy's a real sleaze, Sam, hard, nasty -- nothing you'd want to trust your kids around, if you catch my drift"
"But I'm not--" Sam began.
Al tapped him on the chest with an insubstantial forefinger. "Ziggy thinks that this Bauer creep is so rotten that his aura is projecting that evil right along with his appearance. These guys aren't just seeing our buddy Harry, they're sensing him as well. And they don*t like what they're picking up."
Beckett considered this seriously. "Makes sense, But with their friend's life at stake, they're going to have to let me help him." He moved out of the way as Peter appeared in the hatchway and began his own, more weary descent Al moved to join Sam at the wing tip.
"I hope you're right, Sam," he muttered. "'Cause I got a feeling that this leap could go from bad enough to worse in jig time."
***
The trip back to the cabin took far longer than Sam's original walk to the plane. Beckett took his place at the foot of the stretcher, his youthful strength bringing puzzled frowns to the faces of the Ghostbusters. They didn't remark on it, however, simply accepted his help and rearranged themselves accordingly around the injured man. This left Egon to trail the group by several steps, his own injured arm now resting in the new sling and splint that Winston had insisted on making for him before leaving the plane. Zeddemore took the poles at Ray's head, ceding his place at the young man's side to Peter, who walked slowly along, maintaining the necessary pressure on the sluggishly bleeding wound. Al vanished almost at once, presumably to recheck Ziggy for updated data.
Stantz had grown progressively less lucid over the course of the trip although not losing consciousness. By the time they'd reached the deceptively primitive cabin, the first signs of shock were already in place. His breathing was coming faster than before, and the look he stubbornly kept in Peter's direction was glassy and barren of all but the merest hint of recognition.
The bearers deposited him on the hard cot, not bothering to slip the canvas stretcher from beneath him before burying the man in a heap of dry blankets from the foot of the bed. Egon removed his friend's boots, while Winston made a bee-line for the radio, still sitting serenely against the wall. "Mayday!" he rapped, adjusting the frequency to 121.5. "Mayday. Air rescue, please respond. Over." No answer. He waited a full fifteen seconds before trying again. "Mayday! Mayday! Air Rescue, is anyone there? Over."
"Air Rescue," a man's voice replied, eliciting loud cheers from Peter. "We copy your signal. Identify yourself. Over."
Winston smiled broadly. "This is Winston Zeddemore, one of the Ghostbusters. Our plane has gone down about two hours out of Bangor, Maine. Pilot and crew are dead, one of our number is badly hurt. Need assistance. Over."
"Roger that, Mr. Zeddemore," the unnamed man returned immediately. "We will initiate rescue procedures immediately. Do you have a more precise location?"
Winston glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "Some valley about forty miles from the New Hampshire boarder," the latter told him. "I'm not sure what it's called." Winston repeated the information.
"Roger." A low muttering could be heard while the Air Rescue operator consulted with someone off-mike. "We're not picking up a transponder signal from your downed plane; any idea why? Over."
Winston shook his head, then, realizing the other couldn't see him, said, "Nose was smashed up pretty good. Possibly that."
Again that off-air muttering. "Leave your mike open," the other said after several seconds. "We'll attempt to trace you through that"
Winston cast a glance over his shoulder at Ray, who was lying nearly motionless, his face creased with pain. "Hurry," he begged over a suddenly dry throat. "We need medical attention bad."
"Roger. We'll be in touch. Out" The mike went dead except for some background static denoting a still open frequency.
Winston turned back to his friends. "All we can do now, " he announced soberly, "is to wait for them to find us. It shouldn't be too long?" This last was a question rather than a statement, and Sam treated it as such.
"Longer than you might think," he said sadly. "There's a snow storm coming that could delay rescue for... until it's too late." He gestured at Ray, his meaning more than clear. "You'd better let me take a look at that wound. I might be able to help."
Peter considered this for a long minute, rubbing his lean jaw, his green eyes sizing up Sam's appearance as though he were examining an amoeba under a microscope. Sam straightened his shoulders in an effort to not squirm, and finally the brown haired psychologist nodded. "All right. Take a look," he agreed, emphasizing the last word.
"I'm going to look around for another medical kit," Winston stated, purposely neglecting to inquire of Sam if there was one in the cabin. He left his seat at the radio to prowl the room, beginning with the bolted door to his left. A moment later and light washed into the living room from the harsh fluorescents of the lab. Winston disappeared inside.
Sam took his place at the bedside, carefully tugging away the torn black t- shirt. "What happened here?" he asked curiously, touching the large bruise on Ray*s right shoulder.
Peter, intently watching Sam*s every move, leaned closer. "That must have been where he first hit. We were so busy taking care of his side-.." He broke off, shooting Sam a worried look. "Do you think the bone is broken?"
Sam probed gently at the affected area, "Hard to tell; might be cracked but I can't feel any jagged edges under the skin. He should have it X-rayed as soon as possible." "He should have a lot of things done as soon as possible," the psychologist retorted shortly.
Sam nodded, then proceeded with his gentle examination. He lifted off the bloody bandage surrounding the spike of metal, the action forcing a soft moan from between Ray's clenched teeth. Sam patted him absently on the shoulder, "I'm sorry. I need to see how bad it is."
Ray closed his eyes. "P-Peter?"
"Right here, buddy," Venkman soothed, laying his hand on Ray's forehead. "Hang on." Ray nodded and said no more.
Sam's examination was over quickly, a few deft touches confirming what he already knew. "He's bleeding internally; if that strip penetrated the peritoneal wall, he could be developing a case of peritonitis on top of the blood loss."
"We used what antiseptic there was," Egon explained from his position at the outer door.
Sam shook his head. "He's going to need full battery antibiotics and immediate surgery. Notice how shock is becoming pronounced?"
"So, like, what do you suggest?" Peter asked, his worry not muting his expression of open distrust.
Sam considered. "Surgery. If I can stop the internal bleeding, we'll be able to combat the shock until help arrives. Then his only danger will be infection; we'll need a hospital for that, but this should give your friend a fighting chance until then."
"Good pitch, Sam," Al remarked from behind Sam's back. "If you can keep that kid alive until help comes, you should be able to leap out of here and Ziggy can relax."
"There's one thing more," Egon put in, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs in an attitude of nonchalance. He wrinkled his nose at the foul stench exuded by his still-slimy boot. "We still have Naggaoth to consider. What if he decides to attack us while you're operating?"
"Who's Naggaoth?" Sam asked, getting to his feet.
"Phew! He got you good, didn't he?" Peter put in. He snorted his disgust, adding to Sam, "Provided we let you operate."
"Which we aren't." That was Zeddemore returning from the second room; his face was grim and his particle rifle was slung casually from one dark hand with the barrel more-than incidentally pointing in Sam's direction. "Egon, take a look at this room."
The blond physicist uncrossed his legs and rose, disappearing through the doorway for some minutes. He returned at last after having made a brief circuit of the other room. "It's a lab," he said, emerging to stare curiously at Sam. "Looks like production rather than research. What are you working on?"
At a loss, Sam said nothing and it was left for the stone-faced Winston to answer. "Drugs." The black Ghostbuster closed and rebolted the heavy wood door, though not taking his eyes off of Sam, then sank back down into the radio operator's chair. "Ether, alcohol, cocaine, meth.... It's all back there arranged on nice neat little shelves and labeled with scientific precision." He bared his teeth in Sam's direction, but it was his partners he addressed. "This is a drug lab -- refinement, modification, production, crack or ice I think, I can't tell."
"You low level slime," Peter bit out, his contempt plain in both face and voice. "No wonder you wanted to work on Ray so bad -- one less witness, right? Then what? Take out the rest of us while we're burying him?"
Sam raised his hands helplessly. "I wouldn't...."
"Save it" The green eyes gleaming coldly in the lamplight. Peter waved to a hard chair at the little dining table. "Sit down," he ordered. "Over there away from Ray."
Sam started forward desperately, coming up short when two proton rifles centered on his chest "I'm telling you, help isn't going to make it in time to do your friend any good! The storm is coming back - a snow storm, this time."
Winston snorted. "The pilot told me we were passing through a local squall. I'm sure it's moved on by now"
Sam dropped wearily into the indicated chair, slumping forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "How can I convince you?" he asked pleadingly. "Your friend is going to die before help arrives."
"Or sooner if we let you touch him," Winston snorted.
"No, I mean it. Sam fixed Venkman with a direct look. "Check for yourself; feel around the wound with your fingers. Does the skin feel rigid? Different from the rest of his abdomen?"
Peter bit his lip then, apparently deciding there was no harm to be done by this, obeyed. He ran his fingers around the purple skin, then extended his examination to the surrounding tissue. "Yeee-es," he decided at last "It does feel... strange."
Sam nodded. "As I told you, he's bleeding internally, and it's obvious he's already in shock. If that bleeding isn't stopped soon, it's going to be too late."
"We've been maintaining pressure on the wound," Spengler protested rationally. "That should slow things up long enough for Air Rescue to arrive."
"You hope," Al grated, swinging around to peer at Ray for himself.
"That's a better chance than we have by trusting you," Venkman added, unknowingly answering Al's taunt. He replaced the blankets, drawing them up over Ray's chest. Stantz lay quietly, eyes closed, and seemingly oblivious to what was going on around him. "Ray?"
Stantz stirred weakly. "Hmmm?"
Peter again lay a hand on the younger man's forehead, brushing once to dislodge a strand of fine auburn hair which clung there. He then extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the soaked gauze covering the bleeding wound, and pressed the palm of his hand against it. Ray cried out again, more weakly then before, and Peter winced. "How you doing, kid?" he asked gently. "Think you'll make it for awhile longer yet?"
Brown eyes slitted open briefly before shutting again, a sigh the only answer to Peter's question.
Winston spun his chair until he was refacing the radio. "I'm going to try Air Rescue again," he decided, picking up the mike. "They may have an ETA for us by now." He flicked several switches, increasing the signal as high as it would go. "Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Come in Air Rescue. Over."
There was no reply and, frowning, Winston tried again. "Zeddemore calling Air Rescue. Is anyone there?" He toggled several switches, but the mike remained stubbornly silent. "Hello? Is anyone...?"
"I'm here," a horribly familiar voice hissed through the open receiver.
Without warning, a scaly, taloned hand emerged through the front of the set, making a snatch for Winston's throat. The black Ghostbuster dropped the microphone and reeled back, grabbing for his particle thrower. "Naggaoth!"
"Yessss." A slime covered, noisome head followed the hand, pausing only long enough to chuckle. "There will be no help for you this day" before the radio exploded, the concussion throwing Zeddemore bodily to the ground. Melted and twisted plastic showered the room, spattering the walls and windows with dangerous if non-lethal force. When the gale had cleared, Naggaoth was once again gone.
"That gooper is getting annoying," Peter growled with far more calm than his expression indicated. He straightened from the protective crouch he'd assumed over Ray, his fingers automatically seeking the cold hand of his friend. "You okay, Ray?" The young occultist/ engineer nodded slightly without opening his eyes. Peter sighed. "I get the feeling this isn't going to be one of our better days," he groaned, using the time while the others regained their feet to reseat himself on the edge of the bed.
"A... a ghost?" Al, too, had instinctively ducked when the radio blew. Now he nervously withdrew to the middle of the floor, peering at the ruined radio from a distance of ten feet. "Sam, did you hear that? That was a-"
"A ghost?" Beckett finished aloud. He looked from Egon to a furiously glaring Peter Venkman. "That was a..?"
'Ghost, Spengler repeated, quartering the room with long-limbed steps. "A dangerous Class 8 nether-entity named Naggaoth."
"Who wants us dead in the worst way," Peter concluded wearily, rechecking Ray's bandage. "Man, it*s never easy, is it?"
"No problem, Pete," Zeddemore answered, picking himself up off the floor and dabbing at a bloody cut on his right cheek. "All we have to do now is wait for a rescue team to find us. We can hold out until then."
"Uh-oh.
Zeddemore's eyes swiveled in Sam's direction on hearing that reluctant exclamation, and even Egon ceased his search of the room to stare at the in- disguise quantum physicist. "What's that supposed to mean?" the former demanded, closing the distance between them.
Sam offered him an apologetic shrug. "Look out the window," he invited. "That snow storm is already kicking in." He visibly braced himself, not retreating from the other's distasteful glare. "It could be hours before they get here. And with night falling...."
"It's only four o'clock," Spengler pointed out calmly, reclipping his thrower and removing the PKE meter from his breast pocket.
"Sundown is at 5:41 this time of year," Al supplied, pacing agitatedly in a circle.
"Sundown is at 5:41 this time of year," Sam repeated, thanking his friend with a surreptitious glance. "There's no way they're going to locate the plane and get help in here any time soon. You're going to have to let me take care of your friend. As a doctor...."
Egon, still standing directly before Beckett, idly pointed his PKE meter at the time traveler. It uttered a loud 'beep!' and began to flash, the needle fluctuating wildly. Egon studied it for several seconds, then waved it around the room. It squawked again and flashed red. "He's hot, gentlemen," the blond proclaimed calmly. "Variables in the plus-4 range." Two particle rifles leveled in Sam's general direction. "He-he's the one from the plane," Ray's soft voice interjected from the side. "Him and... the other."
"Other?" Venkman threw his friend a puzzled look, then released the pressure on Ray's side and wiped his bloody hand on his coverall. "Point the 'other' out, Ray," he urged, bracing his rifle in both hands.
Stantz blinked rapidly, then raised his hand to gesture at the spot Al Calavicci's holographic image was presently occupying. "Right there." Peter followed his pointing finger, aimed and fired.
"Al!" Sam yelled as the energy stream fried the air precisely where Calavicci had been a fraction of a second before. Reflexes honed by forty years of military training, Al was no longer there. An automatic push of a button and the imaging chamber door closed, leaving Sam to face three hard men alone.
"So your pet gooper has a name," Peter remarked, his attention torn between Sam and the rest of the room. "Hey, Ray, you see that 'other' person still?"
Stantz raised his head and looked around, then dropped limply back to the cot, his hand automatically going to his side. "No."
"Who is Al?" Spengler asked, again consulting his PKE motor.
Sam lifted both shoulders in an impotent gesture. "I doubt you'd believe me if I told you."
"I doubt it, too," Peter growled nastily. "Winston, see if you can find some rope. I don't want our little dogie doing any roaming until help comes."
***